Hand Warmer by Owen Townend

At market there was a sign:

‘HAND WARMER’.

I have bad circulation this time of year,

so I followed the glowing arrows.

 

They stopped at this stall with a bloke behind.

He looked creepy in his corduroy cardigan.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘come for a hand-warming?’

 I couldn’t see any packets or boxes so I asked,

‘How though?’

He held out his own hands.

I pulled back.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘That’s not decent.’

‘Tis hand-warming though.’

He got me there.

‘I prefer packets.’

‘Packets?’ He scoffed. ‘Bah! I can guarantee true heat!’

True heat? That sounded even less decent.

‘Come on,’ he said, eyebrows waggling. ‘Tis electric.’

‘Electric how?’

He paused. ‘I have a pacemaker.’

I finally had enough and left.

‘Please,’ he called after me. ‘I’m your fellow man.’

But I kept on walking.

A handshake’s all well and good

but not one long enough to keep off cold.